


For Sam

by mansikka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Big Brother Dean, Eventual Fluff, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 18:49:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6341074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mansikka/pseuds/mansikka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything that Dean does, and gives up, is for Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Quick in, quick out

_Quick in, quick out_ , he tells himself. He's already cased the place, knows the nearest exit, where the shelves are, where he can hide things in his pockets. He knows exactly which direction to run in, and how if he gets over that little wall around the corner where the cars pull up, he can get away, and get unseen. Or least, lay low for a while.

 

His stomach is churning, over and over, and his heart's fluttering like he's bursting with bees.

 

His knees knock again, and he doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want this, at all; he knows this is one step down a path that will set the course for the rest of his life if he takes it.

 

But how can he not?

 

Sam's back at the motel, curled up in a ball with his knees into his stomach, being as quiet as he can but still crying softly with how hungry he is.

 

And his dad...

 

Where is he? He's been gone days now, and that fist full of screwed up bills and pocket change he'd thrown down on the counter when he'd left have only gone so far; in fact, Dean feels a tiny amount of pride at himself that they've managed to stretch it to three whole days.

 

His own stomach growls, and he tries to ignore the reminder that he's been having half the amount Sam's been having, and didn't even eat more than a single bite last time.

 

 _Sam_ , he thinks again, and sets his shoulders.

 

He pushes the glass door open, eyes firmly set away from the counter and jaw clenched against the guilt already bubbling up through him like a soda machine. He walks, picking up random cans and packets as though he's reading the food labels as he passes.

 

He sneaks things inside his pockets as he goes, wishing over again that he'd had just a little money left, so that he could at least buy something, maybe divert attention that way. But the last cent went yesterday, and there's nothing left, and if dad doesn't come back soon-

 

 _For Sam,_ he repeats to himself. _For Sam_.

 

His heart's no longer fluttering; it's like the bees have all got together there in his chest and have started up a brass band that's pounding its way along the blackest of parades.

 

He gets as far as the door, and a heavy hand pressed hard down and onto his shoulder tells him Sam's going to be hungry a while longer.

 

 _I've let him down_ , Dean thinks to himself, feeling heavier than lead.

 

 _I've let him down_.

 

***

 


	2. Demon blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demon blood.
> 
>  
> 
> How could Sam, his sweet, oversized little brother who's so good, and so wholesome, be addicted to demon blood of all things?

_**Demon blood.** _

 

How could Sam, his sweet, oversized little brother who's so good, and so wholesome, be addicted to demon blood of all things?

 

Okay, so Sam's only a little more wholesome than he himself is, Dean thinks, knowing wholesome is a word that doesn't fit either of them, but still. Sam will forever be that kid that he needs to look out for, the only thing in his life that gives him purpose, that beacon in the night that gives him hope when the blackest of moods has taken over and all he wants is for just a little peace from it all.

 

Just for a little while. Or indefinitely, whichever comes first.

 

Sam's been his salvation, so many times over, and he probably doesn't even know it.

 

And Dean will always, always try to be his salvation too; he just wishes salvation was something Sam had never needed.

 

But demon blood. How did that happen? How did Dean let that happen?

 

Dean's read up on cold turkey since this is the situation he's gotten them into, winced his way through the worst of it, and thinks he's got all his bases covered.

 

But the one thing he'll never be able to get control of here is his anger at himself.

 

Because somehow, Sam's addiction is all his fault. It _is_. It always was.

 

Whether through their dad's verbalised confirmation, or the gloating, smirking face of his own that he catches from time to time in the mirror when he forgets he's not got the right to look himself in the eye anymore.

 

It's always been true. He's always been a failure.

 

He's always failed to keep Sam safe.

 

He tightens Sam's restraints as Sam's experiencing a moment of weakness, straddles across his stomach like he used to do when they were kids and he had to force him to take medicine when he was sick, and dribbles a little more water into his mouth, trying to keep him hydrated if nothing else.

 

Dean's eyes fall on how chapped Sam's lips are, and instantly Dean's thinking of some other chapped lips that have been snagging at his attention for far too long.

 

Evil, taunting words churn up in him, at him; the kinds of slurs that he wouldn't even _think_ at anyone else, but at himself he yells them, loud and clear, for only him to hear.

 

Strange how their tone always take on that of his father, despite him long being gone.

 

Cas wouldn't want him back the same way he wants him, anyway, Dean reminds himself bitterly. How would someone – some _thing_ – as incredible as Cas, ever consider anything from Dean other than assistance when it was a job even he couldn't screw up, or was unavoidable?

 

And how _dare_ he allow himself to have thoughts of anything for himself, when Sam's laid out before him going through hell?

 

Sam's eyes snap open at the moment Dean stands, and the look is cold, accusing, full of rage.

 

Dean blames himself all over again, and why wouldn't he? If he'd never gone and gotten Sam in the first place, ripped him away from a life of normality, where he'd belonged, then Sam would never be going through this now.

 

Sam should never have had to go through any of this. Not any of it at all.

 

So Dean lets all of Sam's angry words bathe him, because there's nothing quite as restorative as having all your faults and failures repeated back to you in a callous, brutal tone by someone you care about.

 

It's all okay. It's good. If this is what Sam needs to get better, then Dean'll let him say, and do, whatever it takes.

 

 _For Sam,_ he thinks, drowning out yet agreeing with all that Sam is screaming at him. _For Sam_.

 

***

 


	3. It's his eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's his eyes, Dean thinks to himself, digging his fingers hard into his palms and hoping to divert the pain he's feeling everywhere else to those solitary locations.
> 
>  
> 
> Cas is staring back at him, a look of pure confusion, hurt, disbelief, sorrow, and fear, all churned around one ultimate question: why?
> 
>  
> 
> It's his eyes, Dean thinks again. His eyes, that are going to be the thing that breaks him, that will stare back at him long after he is gone.

_It's his eyes_ , Dean thinks to himself, digging his fingers hard into his palms and hoping to divert the pain he's feeling everywhere else to those solitary locations.

 

Cas is staring back at him, a look of pure confusion, hurt, disbelief, sorrow, and fear, all churned around one ultimate question: _why?_

 

 _It's his eyes_ , Dean thinks again. _His eyes_ , that are going to be the thing that breaks him, that will stare back at him long after he is gone.

 

He doesn't want Cas to go. He doesn't. He wants to wrap his arms around him tightly and breath him in, and keep him here, keep him close, and whole, and safe. Home.

 

Because Cas has come to mean that much to him. Even if he's never had the guts to do anything about it other than stare on back at him. Even though he's been doing it for so long now that it aches.

 

He'd been hoping. Now that Cas was here, at the bunker with him. Well maybe. Maybe he could do something about it. Maybe try the talking thing, or let things pan out naturally between them, but then who's he kidding? He's _still_ not good enough for Cas, even now. Why would Cas ever want _him_?

 

So he wouldn't force it, no way. Not ever.

 

 _I'm disgusting_ , Dean tells himself again, and means it in about a million different ways.

 

So he does what he always does in situations like this. He turns it outwards, lashes out, barks at Cas like he's the one that's done something wrong. Stamps around, loading up a holdall for him with all the things he thinks Cas might need to tide him over for a while. He's hoping not for very long; he's hoping it'll be a few days and he'll at least be able to explain why he's doing what he's doing.

 

But his eyes.

 

Cas' eyes are telling him he'll never understand. They're saying _what did I do wrong_? And _why are you sending me away_?

 

Dean wants to scream. He wants to turn his face to the sky and howl, and shriek at how unfair this is. Because for the first time in his life, he _wants_ something, just for himself.

 

He wants Cas, honestly and truly, and he might not have ever really known what love felt like before this, but god, how he knows it now. It's painful, and keeps him awake more than it lets him sleep, but he knows how he feels about Cas. He can admit that to himself now. Even if he'll never allow himself to say it out loud.

 

Even if he's got the distinct impression that, unfathomably, Cas might want him back a little bit as well.

 

But he can't have that. He's not allowed.

 

He's not allowed himself anything like this before, never allowed himself to want someone like this.

 

Even with Lisa and Ben, it was more about a sense of duty, about fulfilling a promise he'd made Sam, than about doing something that he himself wanted. Not that he'd been unhappy at all; it was just... even back then. Even then. His thoughts had been occupied with Cas.

 

But Sam had told him: apple pie life. And so he'd listened to Sam. He'd gone to Lisa. No matter how much he'd wanted to reach out for Cas. Not that Sam was at fault there either; because how was he to know who Dean really wanted to be with when he behaved the way he did around Cas? Like he was a sometimes useful but often exasperating child?

 

 _Sam_ , Dean thinks, his stomach churning over again. He's doing this for Sam.

 

He's pushing away the one person in this entire universe that he might have been willing to be himself for. The one person who he might have allowed himself to admit to, that at times, he does feel weak. He does feel _need_.

 

The drive home from dropping Cas off is in the exact kind of silence that makes Dean's heart feel like it's screaming for escape. More than once, Dean wants to just keep on driving. Along this road, off a cliff, anywhere at all. Anywhere to escape from himself.

 

The bunker, on his return, is too empty. Too cold, too bare for him not to want to tear it all down with his bare hands.

 

But for Sam, he doesn't.

 

So he drinks, until the urge to let himself dare to feel maudlin, or sorry for himself, or grief for what he's lost – given up – pushed away, he corrects himself – until that urge is numbed enough for him to be able to roll on to his back, stare up at the ceiling, and fall into a restless sleep with blue eyes haunting his dreams.

 

 _For Sam,_ is his last thought before he finally drops off. _For Sam_.

 

***

 


	4. For Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Sam, he thinks, because this is the kind of life Sam had always dreamed about escaping to.
> 
>  
> 
> He glances up at the tall apartment block, then down at the flowerbeds surrounding the main entrance, and shuffles the bags of groceries in his hands.
> 
>  
> 
> Maybe not exactly what Sam wanted, he amends.

_For Sam_ , he thinks, because this is the kind of life Sam had always dreamed about escaping to.

 

He glances up at the tall apartment block, then down at the flowerbeds surrounding the main entrance, and shuffles the bags of groceries in his hands.

 

Maybe not exactly what Sam wanted, he amends.

 

There's no white picket fence, no kids on a swing set that he'll get to call his or be called uncle by, and probably the thing that disappoints Sam the most, is that there's no dog.

 

It'd be wrong to keep a dog in an apartment, Dean tells himself, and virtual-Sam, for the hundredth time.

 

Dean awkwardly angles his thumb to press the button to call the elevator, and hums softly under his breath, glancing down at the ingredients sticking out of the paper bags he's holding, and smiles.

 

Maybe none of this is _just_ for Sam at all.

 

He still can't quite believe this is his life now. _Their_ life.

 

 _This_ life, that began around eighteen months ago, in blood, and pain, and what he'd thought inevitable death.

 

There'd been a hunt, because back then, that's all their lives were; hunt after next bad thing after hunt. Now that they'd stopped running, sometimes Dean felt like he had years of sleep to catch up on from it all; not that the residual nightmares of their former lives didn't cling on to him with an ice grip and prevent that from happening from time to time.

 

But this hunt. It was bad, even by their standards. That gut-twisting, cracking noise that signalled bones breaking. The choking gulps that spoke of knives, or claws, or other weapons being plunged deep through skin. Blood. So much blood, slicking up around them and making defensive moves near impossible.

 

So much of that blood had been his.

 

He and Sam, they'd done a couple of in-field transfusions before. Only when they'd been at their most desperate, and only when there was absolutely no other option available.

 

It wasn't something they liked doing at all. True, they'd done their fair share of back-street surgery with whiskey serving as both the anaesthetic and antiseptic treatment, wounds bound together with dental floss, and knives digging out stray bullets or glass shards when absolutely necessary.

 

But blood transfusions were that little step too far that could go horribly wrong for them both, and leave both of them weak. When there was always supposed to be one of them being the strong one.

 

Dean fought tooth and nail for that person to always be him, whether he was protecting, or needing protecting.

 

But this time, he was fading, slipping away.

 

He'd only been given all the details much later.

 

Cas had arrived to join the fight, shielding Dean as much as he could as he bled where he laid slumped on the floor behind him. The fight was somehow won, and Cas conjured up just enough of his grace to get them back to the bunker, where Sam took in Dean's deathly pallor, and determinedly rolled up his sleeves.

 

Between Sam's donated blood, and the final, fragile tendrils of Cas' grace, Dean was given just enough strength to allow him to pass out and recover.

 

And when he'd woken, there was no part of him that hadn't ached more than the area in his chest that he reserved especially for his guilt.

 

Because of course he would berate Sam for risking himself like that. And of course he would despair at Cas for giving up that last bit of grace to save him.

 

Of course he'd never believe himself worthy of either of them.

 

And of course, they'd both told him how very, very wrong he was about that.

 

Between Sam's tearful, angry arguments that Dean had spent his whole life saving him, and Cas' more calm, but just as passionate ones that Dean had been the only thing in his life worth saving, Dean had been overwhelmed.

 

A life spent of feeling unworthy, and undeserving, crashed down on him heavily.

 

Dean felt that every part of him was broken.

 

Cas and Sam had patiently put him back together. Tending to leftover wounds, and lingering fears, until Dean could haltingly catch his own reflection in the mirror properly once again when shaving.

 

It had taken time, and it was still taking time in some ways.

 

But to feel almost whole for the first time in his life, well. That was something Dean would never get sick of feeling.

 

He struggles now to get the key in the apartment door, shoulder-barging his way in and backing up the door to close it with a huff.

 

He goes straight to the kitchen and deposits the bags on the kitchen counter with a sigh of relief. And pulls a beer out of the fridge, leaning back for a moment to take a long, rewarding gulp of it.

 

The slapping sound of bare feet makes his eyes crack open, but not before his mouth curves up in a smile.

 

“You're home,” Cas says, leaning himself up against Dean and wrapping his arms around his waist. Dean does the same, and dips his head down for a kiss.

 

“I am,” he agrees, kissing him again.

 

Cas smiles wide, then stands up straight, and moves to start unpacking the groceries.

 

“I have just finished making the spare room up for Sam,” he tells Dean as he reaches up to slot a box of cereal into the cupboard.

 

Dean's eyes fall to the exposed skin at his waist beneath his t-shirt, and his hands are there instantly, sliding round, pulling Cas back against his chest and pressing his nose into his neck to breathe him in.

 

“Did you win the battle with the duvet this time?” he mumbles into him, and Cas slides his fingers along his forearm, resting them there.

 

“It was an even match,” Cas tells him solemnly, and Dean smiles against his skin, before kissing him and joining in with the unpacking.

 

“It'll be good to have him here for a couple of nights,” Dean says, and Cas hums his agreement.

 

That final battle had served as a final straw, and for whatever reason, they'd all had to walk away from the only life they'd ever really known.

 

It should have felt more difficult, Dean had thought at the time. But when they'd packed up their meagre belongings, scrabbled together all the scammed and hustled cash they could manage, and turned away from the bunker for that last time, all Dean had felt was relieved.

 

And now look at them.

 

With a lifetime of criminal activities at their fingertips, they'd conjured up new IDs, new histories, and new resumes that more or less fit their skills.

 

And why wouldn't they? Dean justified to himself more than once when he felt the guilt surging again about living a 'borrowed' life. When they'd given so much to protect this world, surely a little gave back was to be allowed. Even to be expected.

 

So here they are now.

 

Sam is a private tutor, helping high school and college students alike with all sorts of subjects. Those students often take in his open, honest face, and those puppy-dog eyes that have had Dean caving into things a thousand times over, and wonder what sort of a life he must have led up until now. There's just too much that he just _knows_ about everything.

 

Sam lives, and he and Dean have timed it, exactly five minutes away by car, or fifteen on foot. He's coming over on foot today because he hasn't had time to run for as long as he wanted to this morning. The very thought of which makes Dean groan in disgust. He then thinks about how one of the students Sam's tutoring happens to live on route. And is very cute. And also about to graduate.

 

He wonders if Sam'll be late.

 

Dean is writing.

 

It had been Sam that had given him the idea. Reminding him how he was the one who kept up their dad's journal, and how the few other hunters they'd let see it referred to it as 'the bible' because of how well it was written – and how it had been Dean who'd made up stories for him when he was little and scared, and didn't have a parent to turn to for comfort - Sam heaped praise upon praise on Dean about his abilities, until Dean tentatively believed him.

 

He works for a range of websites writing about all sorts of things, and it's something he's really good at; just because he can't often get the words out of his mouth, doesn't mean he's not good with them when he puts them down on to paper – or in his case, keyboard.

 

Of all the locations Dean likes to work in, the cafe on the corner from their apartment is probably his favourite. He's slowly working his way through every pastry in the display counter, and the coffee there is exceptionally good. Over pie, he idly considers writing something novel-like, but then tells himself he's no Chuck, and certainly no prophet. Which is probably actually a very good thing.

 

He goes to a martial arts class, even if Sam does smirk at him for doing any form of exercise willingly. He likes the way he still feels ready for anything from doing it, even if he has nothing to fight with anymore.

 

He's even enrolled in an evening course at the local community college, because he can, and he wants, and Cas insists, that he do something that's just for himself.

 

The most successful, if success is to be measured in terms of status, of the three of them, is Cas.

 

Being a former angel of the lord, with his millennia of knowledge, meant that Cas was a perfect candidate for the religious studies professorship at the local university. He's _Cas_ to Dean and Sam, but to his colleagues and students he is _Professor Novak_ , a mysterious, private man who was born in Russia, and had arrived at the interview with the best credentials and references the university had ever seen, leaving them with no option but to hire him instantly.

 

Sometimes he even breaks out the Russian at home, which does all kinds of things to Dean. Especially when he's still in his 'professor get-up', as Dean calls it. Right before his eyes flick over Cas hungrily and Dean's helping Cas right out of it.

 

Because Cas and Dean, have been _Cas and Dean_ , for most of those past eighteen months.

 

When Dean had been sufficiently recovered from his injuries, and probably, if they're both honest, even before then, Cas had started sleeping in the bed beside him. It hadn't been discussed, or questioned, or overthought; it had just happened.

 

He'd stared hard at Dean one of those mornings upon waking, with those blue eyes that forever haunted him, and leaned down determinedly to claim a kiss that had been long overdue for the claiming.

 

Maybe it hadn't been quite that straightforward. But then, Dean thinks as he presses kisses up the length of Cas' neck, maybe it really had.

 

“Sam won't be here for hours,” he mumbles against Cas' ear, loving the way Cas shivers and arches back against him.

 

Without the slightest preamble, Cas is moving, then reaching his hand back to slip through Dean's, and slowly leads him down the hall and into their bedroom.

 

***

 

Those hours later, Dean's back in the kitchen making dinner, putting together the ingredients for macaroni and cheese, which somehow after all these years is still Sam's favourite.

 

He's bought the beer Sam likes, and that triple chocolate cheesecake that Cas gets so excited about, and Dean's looking forward to an easy evening with his two very favourite people.

 

He hears Cas letting Sam into the apartment, and their mumbled conversation, before they're both there in the kitchen with him.

 

Sam walks up beside him, nudges his shoulder against Dean's, and spins away with a handful of cheese, while Cas is uncapping beers for the three of them.

 

And as they slip into their regular conversations, Dean allows himself to think.

 

That this life might be simple, and without adventure, and even without much in the way of variation. Days slip by in domesticity and menial tasks, and all the every day things he's thought were for other people.

 

But, however mundane it might look to the outside world, at least in comparison with what he used to have, and do, Dean loves this life he's living.

 

Because it's all _for him_.

 


End file.
